


Role Play

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd rather have found balaclava-wearing terrorists lurking behind the ice sculpture. At least he could shoot them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Role Play

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest Round Ten, for the prompt "John pretends to be Matt's boyfriend to keep an annoying acquaintance away"

"Jesus," Matt says, pausing in the entranceway and tugging at his suit collar for the third time, "exactly what circle of hell is this?"

John puts a hand on the small of Matt's back, propels him into the room and takes his own look around. Glittering chandeliers drip faux-jewelled light onto the tuxedoed and gown clad shoulders of the mingled masses, while stiff-backed waiters circulate with trays of sparkling champagne and lavish hors d'oeuvres. Just like every other charity event he's had to attend for the precinct over the years, and practically pedestrian when compared to the shindigs he was subjected to every other weekend during that year in L.A. with Holly.

Getting Matt to even attend the thing had taken more effort than seemed to be worthwhile, but he'd gone stag to too many of these bullshit events over the years, and the thought of attending another one without a wingman was enough to make John coerce, cajole, and finally bribe Matt into showing up.

Damn yoghurt granola hipster drinks for two weeks, on his tab. Gonna have to take out a goddamn loan to keep the kid in smoothies.

He sighs and steers Matt in the general direction of the ice sculpture that dominates the ballroom, snags a glass of something that looks reasonably drinkable from a passing tray. "Benefits of the job, kid," he says.

"This is a benefit," Matt says skeptically, taking in the various society matrons spilling out of their low-cut gowns before turning a dubious caterpillar eyebrow his way. "Really."

"Sure," John says. "Along with the shitty coffee, the insane hours and the stale bread in the sandwiches from Mendes that you force down every day at your desk, a couple of times a year you also get to squeeze into your best monkey-suit and show up at a goddamn ball, where you'll glad hand a few politicians, make nice with the big-wigs, underbid on the silent auction – and then feel guilty about that and write a big cheque to the Benevolent Association to assuage your conscience – and then go home mildly drunk with aching feet and no memory of what you actually said to your captain, tumbling into bed with a prayer that you don't wake up the next day to a suspension." John takes a swig of his drink, wrinkles his nose and sets it on the nearest table. "All this because you're a member of New York's Finest."

"Well, technically—"

"You're part of the task force, Matt," John says forcefully. "It counts."

It was a sore spot between them. To some of Matt's friends – to bottom feeders like Kaludis – just cooperating with the cops was call for a red flag on the field. Matt didn't like to talk about it, but John knew that a good half of his cyber-buddies no longer had anything to do with him. Matt himself struggled enough with it – the idea that somehow he was 'selling out', 'compromising his ideals' by putting his ample skills to work for the NYPD. Bullshit, is what that was.

To John, once you made the precinct your place of business – whether you were an officer of the law or a secretary or a consultant like Matt – you were a member of the force. Full stop. And that meant that 35,000+ cops had your back. And John just might have Matt's back in particular.

Matt sighs. "I only bid twenty bucks on that Caribbean cruise. Damnit, McClane, now I do feel guilty! And I didn't bring cheques."

"Figured. That's why I already added your name to mine," John says smoothly. "You can pay me back."

"What, you're psychic now? Being Robocop wasn't enough for you?"

"I lived with you for three months, kid. Ya kinda get to know a person," John says. "You also can't remember where you put your ticket stub for your coat."

Matt blinks. "…Shit."

"Left front inside pocket," John says, smirks when Matt reaches in to confirm and pulls out the stub. He catches Joe's eye and lifts a hand, pushes at Matt gently. "Go, mingle. Find someone from Cyber Crimes to talk to about that new Dark Pawn thing. You'll like that."

"Jesus, McClane, even you have to know it's called Dark Knight, and—"

"Whatever," John says. "Mingle."

Fifteen minutes later, John's discussed the problems with the Yankees infield with Joe, gotten into a heated argument with Lestremski over the Rangers cup chances next season, and narrowly avoided the rookie and his big awe-struck eyes. The band is too loud and his shoes are too tight and there's not a single beer on offer at the bar. He's exhausted and the evening has barely started. But he ducks behind a standing column and is watching the rookie's stunned expression at his disappearing act – and quite possibly mentally congratulating himself on a job well done –when things go from bad to worse.

Marilyn Tremblay's red-taloned claws hook his elbow.

He'd rather have found balaclava-wearing terrorists lurking behind the ice sculpture. At least he could shoot them.

" _John_!"

Her voice is every bit as ice-pick shrill as he remembers. He winces before squaring his shoulders. He reminds himself that he's faced down thieves, murderers, junkies and assassins. He can certainly handle one ultra-thin society broad with an outdated tint-and-curl. He turns bravely to face her. "Hello, Marilyn."

"I _thought_ that was you!" the woman gushes. "Well," she purrs, letting her eyes drift over his body, "you've _always_ been easy to pick out of a crowd."

John smiles wanly. Marilyn looks the same as she ever did – red lips, frosted tips, big tits, and so thin that a stiff wind could knock her over. He nods in what he hopes are the right places as she fills him in on her life over the past two years; a litany of mansions and charity events, facial scrubs that don't do what they advertise and dog walkers who overcharge. Mentally he reviews the latest surveillance file that passed his desk, considers who is going to win the Heisman this year, and has moved on to contemplating whether to take out fish or chicken the following night for dinner when--

"—and you know, I always thought we had a _spark_ , a real _connection_ ," Marilyn says. John blinks and flips back to the conversation with an almost audible snap. At some point her hand has left his elbow, her palm now caressing the lapel of his suit, and she's moved just a little too close for comfort. "I know our timing just wasn't right, but maybe… we can try again. Unless, of course," she tilts her head, blinks her long lashes, "you're already seeing someone?"

"Yes," John says quickly, throat suddenly dry. "I am. Seeing someone. Have been seeing someone. For a while, actually. Going really well."

"Ohhh," Marilyn pouts. Her eyes glitter in the light as she looks elaborately around the ballroom. "Well, where _is_ she? You know I'd _love_ to meet her!"

John's mind races as his eyes dart around the room. Of course Marilyn would expect his partner to be here. Because he'd bring this fictional woman of his to the goddamn motherfucking charity event, wouldn’t he? Unless of course his fictional partner was working late or out of town visiting her mother or in the hospital with goddamn appendicitis or … but no, it was too late for an excuse, he's already made it obvious that he's looking for someone, and Marilyn is watching him with narrowed eyes and she always was a goddamn vulture and—

John looks helplessly over at the ice sculpture, sending out a silent prayer for an attack of ninja assassins. He even briefly closes his eyes. When he opens them nobody clad in skin-tight black pajamas has shown up, but his prayer has been answered in another way.

Matt walks by, head down and deep in conversation with Walter Strychowitz.

"— talk that Ledger will get an Academy award nomina—WHOA!" Matt's arms pinwheel – one flailing hand narrowly misses taking out one of the DA's – when John reaches out and snags at his waist. His feet slide once on the slick hardwood floor and then he's flush at John's side, eyes wide.

"Here he is," John says smoothly. "Matthew, I'd like you to meet someone."

"Jesus, McClane, what the fuck?" Matt brushes at the drops of champagne that have spilled on his lapel, scowls at him through his messy bangs.

"Marilyn, this is Matthew Farrell. Matt, Marilyn Tremblay."

Matt glances over and manages a lukewarm smile. For her part, Marilyn couches her surprise in the lift of one impeccably shaped blonde brow. "A pleasure," she says before turning that look to John. "But I'm not sure I understand."

"Oh, you know," John says. He swallows, forces himself not to tug on his collar or twitch at the line of sweat trickling a slow, plodding path down his spine. "People change."

"Of course," Marilyn says. "Why I recently started a macrobiotic diet that has changed my _life_ , and don't even get me started on the yoga! But there's a world of difference between… well. _John_. How long has Matthew here been your—"

"We're not big on labels," John says quickly. He sets his arm more firmly around Matt's waist, pretends he doesn't notice the way Matt's glance flicks to his hand and those big brown eyes grow even wider.

"Of course," Marilyn says again. "I just never… well, you must admit, John, this is a bit of a surpri… how on earth did you meet?"

"Wait," Matt says. "What—"

"You know, we should get that cleaned up," John interrupts, gesturing at the drops on Matt's suit, "before it stains. You'll excuse us, Marilyn?" It's been months since the aborted fire sale, but muscle-memory kicks in and he has Matt hustled across the room before Marilyn can do more than nod vaguely, pushes and prods until he's got Matt up against the back wall and they're reasonably out of the line of fire. Only then does he relax his grip on Matt's waist and realize that the kid is staring incredulously at him.

"Okay," Matt says. "What the actual fuck?"

John square his shoulders, juts out his chin and puts on his best intimidating glare, the one that can make a hardened criminal piss his pants and confess to stealing a butterfinger when he was seven. "What?" he barks out.

The glare works on Matt about as well as it usually does. Meaning not at all.

"Did you… okay, I must be imagining things. 'Cause remember last week, when I was reseating the cables underneath the desk and Kowalski thought it would be funny to goose me and I hit my head on the keyboard tray? This is actually delayed trauma from that, or I could swear you just told that woman I was your boyfriend."

John tries for a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, sees Marilyn still looking skeptically in their direction. He grabs for a napkin from a passing tray of crab cakes, scrubs a little at the champagne on Matt's lapel. "Look," he mutters, "just go along with me on this one, kid."

"Oh my god you did."

John steals another peek – this time Marilyn's lips are compressed together tightly, her head cocked as she watches them through the crowd – before returning his attention to the kid. "Matt—"

"Oh my god," Matt says. He takes a step back, mouth open, before he shakes his head and grins. "You're scared of her!"

"I'm not scared!"

"John McFuckingClane is totally scared of—"

"I'm not fucking scared, all right? I'm just… cautious."

"Cautious," Matt repeats. "Oh my god, did you go out with her?"

"Stop saying oh my god!" John snaps.

Matt simply raises one bushy brow.

"No!" When that brow just creeps for the skyline, John caves. "Fuck. Yes. Once, all right, one date, a _blind_ date, two fucking years ago, and the motherfucker who set me up would've got a punch in the nose if he wasn't my goddamn captain."

"Wow," Matt says slowly, "Scalvino doesn't know you at all."

John dares another glance over his shoulder – still safe – before crumbling up the napkin and shoving it in his pocket. "Look. Kid. It's just better for everyone if Marilyn Tremblay thinks I'm attached right now."

"Everyone meaning you."

John huffs out a breath. "Are you gonna help me out here or not?"

"I don't… oh shit. She's looking this way. You should do something." Matt flaps a hand hurriedly in the air. "Act boyfriendy."

"Boyfriendy? Jesus Christ, Matt, do you have any idea how long it's been since I was anyone's—"

"Okay fine, but it looks like she's heading this way, and I know her type, McClane, trust me, my second stepmother was totally that type, all those breathy sighs and heaving of the bosoms but she was like a leech, just latching on and sucking out every last bit of energy and it's just—"

John doesn't intend to do anything at all, least of all anything "boyfriendy", but those flailing arms are inches away from taking out a tray of cheese puffs so he's got to grab on. And once he does it's easy enough to draw Matt's arms down and step in closer, chest to chest. And all that arm waving and head shaking has made the kid's normally flyaway hair even more unruly, so he pretty much has to smooth it down with his palm, which just leads to sweeping his hand across Matt's cheek and then cupping his jaw.

When he speaks, they are so close that he sees his breath stir Matt's bangs. "Safe?"

"Um." Matt blinks, looks over John's shoulder. "For now. You know you can't just manhandle me all night, right?"

"I can't?"

"Well, your fellow officers might get a little… um… what are you doing?"

Matt's hair really is a goddamn mess. John finds himself tucking an errant strand behind Matt's ear, and when his finger brushes the shell of Matt's ear he feels Matt's shiver practically from head to toe. Matt's eyes are wide and unblinking now, and it hardly takes any effort at all to bridge the tiny gap between them, press their lips together chastely.

Matt's lips are warm, sweet like the champagne he's been guzzling, fuller and softer than he imagined when he used to watch Matt sleep last summer, passed out on the sofa in a vicodin haze. When he used to picture himself leaning down like some kind of goddamn grizzled prince charming to wake him with a kiss, fuzzy and muddled himself, only to pretend the next day or week or month that the painkillers were to blame. He doesn't have percocet to blame today – he doesn't even have champagne – and when he pulls away to rest his forehead against Matt's, breathe in the kid's stuttering breath, he only hopes he didn't just make the biggest mistake of his fucking life.

"Is she still there?" John asks.

There's a flush in Matt's cheeks, and it takes his eyes a few seconds to focus, but he rouses himself, shifts a little to again look over John's shoulder. "Yeah," he confirms. "She's… uh… she's looking right at us."

John pulls back, quirks a solitary brow. Mistake averted. Danger eliminated. All engines, full speed ahead. "Really, kid?"

When Matt licks his lips, it's all John can do not to dive back in for another taste. "She's… um… she's…"

"She's on the other side of the room looking at the art exhibition," John says smoothly.

Matt flushes just a little bit brighter, but he lifts his chin. "Hah. Okay, caught me. Marilyn totally walked away like five minutes ago. But hey, _you_ kissed _me_. And you have to admit, I made an awesome pretend boyfriend. And you know, sure, I kissed you back, but when a guy's number one fantasy comes to life and starts macking on him in the middle of the room, it's not really even possible for the guy to have the willpower to say No—"

John closes the distance, presses their lips together again, and when Matt's lips part beneath his he finds himself pushing even closer, arm stealing around to the small of Matt's back to tug him in. Some part of him – some small insignificant part – wonders if they're far enough away from the crowd, thinks that they may very well be making a spectacle of themselves in front of the mayor, the police commissioner, and the entire ladies auxiliary. But most of him has been waiting eight months for this, and really just doesn't give a fuck.

"Hey," he says when they part, "what'd'ya say we skip the dinner and go straight to dessert?"

"Oh my god, did you actually just… you did not just say that, McClane. Really? Because that is the cheesiest thing I have ever heard—"

"Shut up and kiss me again, kid."

Yeah. Getting Matt to be his wingman at this event was the best idea he's ever had.


End file.
